


Customer Service

by elegantanagram (Lir)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Retail, Casual Sex, Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, Humanstuck, M/M, POV Third Person, Semi-Public Sex, Size Kink, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 00:42:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1878531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lir/pseuds/elegantanagram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The store Eridan is working at happens to be a high-end clothing boutique, and when it comes down to it, it's true he only took the job to prove to his father that he has the work ethic. He's so busy struggling to toe the company line that he almost doesn't realize he's being hit on -- or that he might be a lot more into what this particular customer is packing than his pride dictates he should let on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Customer Service

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yenmae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yenmae/gifts).



> The request I chose was: _"Bro's got a big dick. Like, a 10-inch monster of a schlong. Eridan ain't ever seen a guy so hung irl, and is more than a little curious. Maybe he's a bit of a size queen, up to you :D Points for a loud, eager, overstuffed and aged-up Eridan, whether as a human or a troll."_
> 
> Both the pairing and the size kink were more or less made for me to fulfill, and I hope you like (what more or less qualifies as) exhibitionism because the setup I chose for this was pretty much designed PURELY to lead to exactly one place. The clothing store Eridan works at isn't meant to be any specific realworld chain, for ~creative license reasons. He's also intended to be about eighteen and working a summer job before going off to college, but that part is pretty nebulous.

-

The first time Eridan sees Bro Strider, he wonders what the hell a douchebag of that caliber is doing in their store, and whether he might have to call security. No one who manages to think popped collars are cool while also flagrantly wearing such ostentatious sunglasses indoors could possibly be up to anything good. His fingers hover over the call button for his manager the entire time Bro is in his line of sight. 

Eridan is somewhat disappointed, when the most interesting thing Bro does is buy twenty-one six-packs of plain white athletic socks. 

But he signs his receipt "Bro," and the laugh Eridan gets from that almost makes up for the disappointment. 

-

The second time Eridan sees Bro Strider, he's tied up in the store's woefully understocked maternity section. The fact that they stock maternity wear at all is a mystery to Eridan; theirs is a high-end clothing boutique, and he never realized expectant mothers shopped couture. He doesn't think someone like Bro shops couture, either, but he also wouldn't expect Bro to need a maternity top, so what the hell does he know? 

"Hey. Kiddo. Can you do me a solid?" 

Eridan is obligated to oblige him, weird shades and all. He doesn't think, however, that any value of paycheck could oblige him to keep the sour look off his face at being referred to like a child.

"What can I help you with?" he asks. 

His voice, at least, stays smooth as silk. There's no way he's letting his shitty summer job get the better of him. He'll prove to his dad that he can handle this, that he isn't so soft-palmed and spoiled that he can't work for his keep, and he'll demonstrate just how well he handles responsibility. He's being polite and patient, but he doesn't think even his practiced salesman veneer is inviting enough to account for the widening smirk on the customer's lips. 

Bro holds up a loose, stretchy maternity dress and asks, "I need to know the approximate tensile strength on this. You know, about how much force it can take before it's gonna give?" 

Eridan has no idea how to answer. None of his job training prepared him for this. 

"We don't really make it our business to do wear tests on all a our products," he tries. "If it's a concern a yours whether somethin' you buy is goin' to rip, I might suggest buyin' the same thing in a larger size." 

Bro purses his lips, nods a little, and tosses the dress carelessly across the top of a rack. Eridan tries not to cringe at the disregard for the tidying-up work he or some other employee will have to do later. He doesn't succeed. 

"I've got another question for you." 

Eridan thinks, again, of calling security. He says instead, "A course, whatever I can do to help." 

"Another question" turns into three, and then ten, and Eridan begins to wonder whether what Bro is outfitting might be a crash test dummy, rather than a mother to be. Bro doesn't buy a single thing he asks about, after occupying a half hour of Eridan's time. He simply claps Eridan on the back, drops a "Thanks," and grabs a plush off one of the impulse displays before sauntering over to the register. 

Staring at the pacifier-nosed pink elephants Bro had made his selection from, Eridan wonders whether he should have paid attention to the company policies on harassment. 

-

The third time Eridan sees Bro Strider, the man hardly comes into the store. He walks only as far as Eridan's register, coming toward it from the wrong way around in blatant disregard of the (currently nonexistent) line, before leaning against the counter and pulling out his wallet. 

"Can you make change for a twenty?" he asks, in the same tone Eridan suspects he might use to ask "Can I take you out to dinner?" It's infuriating; it's definitely not charming at all. 

He wants to tell Bro that store policy is that they don't open the registers unless someone has made a purchase. He wants to declare that Bro go and get bent. He wants to ask Bro, just a little, what the hell he needed a hundred and twenty-six pairs of socks for. Instead, he bites his tongue hard enough that it stings. 

"Is a ten and two fives alright with you?" he asks. 

"That'd be perfect," Bro says. His smarmy grin starts to spread across his face like a fungus. He tilts his whole head down, as his gaze drops to Eridan's nametag, like he wants to make sure Eridan sees where he's looking despite the shades. "Thanks... Eridan." 

Eridan jams the buttons to release the register drawer, shoving Bro's change in his face. "No problem." 

The feeling churning in his gut as Bro walks back out of the store is disgust, definitely disgust. 

-

By the fourth time Eridan sees Bro Strider, he's starting to expect it. He's working the fitting rooms, and the instant he sees that pale-blond head cruise past the mouth to the changing area he feels himself going on high alert. There's something up with mister douchey polo, and if nothing else, he knows it will be more interesting than cleaning up after snooty women who can't be bothered to bring their garments back out to the return rack.

(Eridan has held down his abysmal retail job for three entire weeks, he's even gotten _paid_ once, and any day now his dad will acknowledge that he's achieved something.) 

When Bro comes back Eridan's way, it's with a half-dozen pairs of skinny jeans draped over his arm. Eridan's gaze drops to the baggy sweats Bro is currently wearing, and his eyebrows go up. It takes every ounce of his concentration to bite back the question of whether Bro has picked out the right pants. Maybe he'd like for Eridan to show him to the sportswear section instead? 

"I'd like to get a room," Bro says. 

"How many items do you have?" Eridan asks, politely. 

In his head, he's asking, "Don't you mean a stall?" because they all happen to be tiny little cubbyholes, hardly anything a sane person would dignify with the term "room." In his head, he's trying not to laugh, because he doesn't know if the sound will be tinged with distaste or hysteria, and neither option is one he can play off to a customer. 

"Six," Bro says, the sibilant sound drawn out just a hair too far. 

Eridan snatches up the appropriately numbered plate, and flashes Bro an exceedingly toothy, too-bright smile. It's so obviously forced but he can't bring himself to care. "Let me just unlock that for you." 

Bro hooks the thumb of his free hand off the pocket of his sweats, and rocks back on his heels. His only acknowledgment toward Eridan is a slim nod of his head, nothing Eridan would consider as passing for manners. He shrugs, huffily, and turns on his heel even as he snatches the keys for the changing rooms. When he goes to unlock the nearest, he feels Bro's hand on his arm stopping him, and he stares down at the offending appendage for a solid minute before his tongue catches up to voice his objection.

"Is something wrong?" he asks, struggling so hard just to remain polite. 

"Not that one," Bro says. "Can you hook me up with the one at the end of the row?" 

It's true that the last stall in the line is a bit larger than the others, but that's on account of being proportioned for handicapped patrons. Eridan is supposed to say no, is supposed to say that he can't do that. He shrugs instead, and walks over to shove his key in that door instead. He's already concluded that Bro Strider is someone even he doesn't want to argue with. 

"You're a gentleman and a scholar," Bro says, bumping Eridan's shoulder with his own like that's some kind of joke, like it's his way of saying thanks. Then he pats Eridan on the ass before wedging into the stall, and Eridan doesn't manage to say anything back at all. 

He has absolutely no idea what to make of Bro. 

Eridan is used to being the pursuer, rather than the one pursued, miserably though all his chases have gone. It's unexpectedly disconcerting, to realize that someone might be hitting on him for a change. Bro is so incredibly absurd that he can't quite be sure about it, but the ass-pat feels like the clincher. 

Who the hell tries to pick someone up in a clothing store, anyway? 

It's a question Eridan knows he won't get an answer to, beyond the obvious one of "Bro fucking Strider," and that fact leaves him at loose ends. He should return to cleaning up, should do his job and continue proving that he has a work ethic greater than what little his father accuses him of, but he can hear Bro moving around inside the handicapped changing room and he just cannot motivate himself to give a shit. His job is a joke. He could get fired, and it just wouldn't matter at all. He goes to lean on the podium at the entrance to the changing room area in a defeated huff instead. 

"Hey, give a guy a hand over here?" 

Eridan wants to blow off helping Bro, too, but that much dereliction of duty is beyond him. He drifts closer to Bro's changing room. "What do you need?" 

"Think I grabbed a size too small on these pants. You wanna run over and grab me the next one up? It'd save my ass a hell of a lot of bother." 

"That's not really in my job description," Eridan tells him.

"So what you're telling me is, go do it my own damn self?" 

Eridan bites his tongue for a second, he really does. He's had his on the job manners thoroughly drilled into him. They still aren't strong enough to hold. "Yeah, I'm tellin' you to go do it yourself, I'm a sales associate, not your personal fuckin' butler." 

The lock rattles in the door, before Eridan hears it turn. Bro shoves the door open, standing in the gap with his fly drawn all the way down because the pants he's trying on are too tight to pull the zipper up. It's really not Eridan's fault that his eyes go right to Bro's crotch – the man's boxer-briefs are an arresting shade of orange, and the jeans he's somehow managed to pull on are black. Eridan can hardly be blamed for looking. 

He thinks that those jeans are really what's doing Bro's ass a favor, and it might be kind of his fault that he's staring at Bro's package way longer than could ever be deemed socially correct. Either he really is sizing up the line of a customer's dick through his underwear, or Bro has taken it upon himself to start smuggling zucchinis in his undergarments. 

"Kind of just wanted a minute or five to peel myself back out of this denim catsuit," Bro explains, voice warm and amused. "My face is up here, by the way." 

Eridan is pretty sure his own face has gone an incredibly unflattering and (if he's really unlucky) blotchy shade of red, judging from how hot it's burning. He swallows hard, and tilts his chin up, refusing to be cowed, least of all by a line as fucking cliché and horrible as that. 

"It's still not my fault if you go an' slither into clothes that are too small for you," he says. 

"Sure it's not," Bro agrees. "But it's hells of on you once you start going about checking out the merchandise. You like what you see, sugarplum?" 

Bro Strider is _awful,_ between the unforgivable clichés and the ugly, knowing smirk – which is only made worse, when Eridan looks down again without meaning to and earns himself a throaty chuckle for his troubles. Eridan doesn't know if pet names are also part of the man's overdone shtick or if it's a weird jab at his hairstyle, but like hell if he's going to ask. 

"Zip up your pants if you don't want people starin' at you," he snaps. 

"I don't know," Bro says, shrugging. "Maybe I want people to stare." 

He gets what he asks for, though this time it's Eridan gaping in disbelief right at his face, rather than staring in guarded fascination at the largest penis-shape he's seen through someone's pants outside of the ludicrous gay porn he most certainly doesn't watch on the internet. 

"All that shit about size not mattering is bull, so you know," Bro says, like it's a taunt, or like he's imparting some exceptionally deep wisdom. "Shitheads can crow about the motion of the ocean all they damn well please but fact of the matter still is, I know how to use what I've got and whatever you're imagining about how effective that's gonna be with more schlong to work with? Fucking pales in comparison to the reality, I promise you that." 

Eridan's mouth has gone so dry his tongue sticks on his response, the words getting all caught in his throat. "I'm not imaginin' havin' sex with you an' you damn well shouldn't flatter yourself that way." 

"Uh huh?" Bro says. "You wanna come into my parlor and talk about just how much you don't want on my dick?" 

He pushes the door to the changing room wider, backing against it and making a sweeping motion with his hand to encompass the gap. The feeling that Bro has somehow, inexplicably, figured him out is rising in Eridan's gut, and it'd be uncomfortable to think about if it wasn't for his pants getting uncomfortable instead. His cock is rising to the occasion faster than his unease, and he can push his reservations all to the side to instead focus on that. 

He pushes past Bro and into the small room with his head held high, pretending like it's all his idea, like he isn't so goddamn proud he can't back down from even the stupidest challenges. 

Bro pulls the door closed behind them, and even though he doesn't turn around, Eridan again hears the sound of the lock sliding into place. There's a finality to the sound, but he can't be bothered with caring about that. A full-length mirror lines the back wall of the tiny room, with a bench against another and a waist-level metal bar along the third, and Eridan can see Bro reflected in the mirror without having to turn. 

"Just sayin' I was thinkin' about, about what you're suggestin', do you really think this is an appropriate place for that kind a thing?" Eridan asks. 

"Don't see why not," Bro says. 

Eridan sees the shrug in the mirror, sees the careless way Bro's shoulders roll before he takes one more step forward, and then Eridan can feel his proximity along his back like Bro is a heat source. Bro is standing just enough to the side that Eridan can also see the way his jeans have slid lower off his hips in the mirror, can see even more of the thick outline of his cock through his briefs. He swallows again, and Bro probably sees that just as clearly. 

"There are cameras, for one thing," Eridan says. 

"Then just go ahead and give 'em a show," Bro suggests. 

Eridan could point out how unforgivably stupid that advice is, but he's already the one putting on a show, aggressively feigning disinterest because he isn't used to having someone come onto him so bluntly. If Bro and shame were ever acquainted, they made their break so forcibly that Eridan doubts they'll ever meet again. He eyes the shape of Bro's dick in the mirror again, and his tongue flicks out, unbidden, to trace over his lips. 

Eridan turns around, arms crossing over his chest, and says, "I hope you have lube, an' condoms, because if you think I'm fuckin' you withou--" 

The rest of the words he had planned die promptly on his tongue, cut off when Bro pulls up both his hands, a condom packet between two of his fingers and a thin tube of lubricant in his other hand. It occurs to Eridan that Bro must have been holding both of those things the whole fucking time they'd been talking and he'd just failed to notice, which makes him wonder if Bro really did come to the store with the sole intention of trying to fuck him.

That thought should be really, really creepy, but his dick informs him that no, it's just incredibly fucking hot, holy shit. 

"Right ahead of you," Bro says, and all of a sudden the smug lilt to his voice is also one of the sexiest things Eridan has heard in the too-short duration of his life. 

"God, okay, fine," he says. "What are you even waitin' for?" 

Bro laughs again, and Eridan lets his fingers grab for his fly, still a bit shy about dropping trou in front of a man he'd even then hesitate to label as positively as being an acquaintance, but too eager about what he's been promised to let that stop him. The button works loose and the zip draws down, pulled so quickly it makes a sound like ripping the cord on an engine. He's got his pants shoved to mid-thigh when Bro slips his dick out of his briefs, and that small motion is enough to make Eridan's hands falter and stop. 

It looks bigger, slapped against the breadth of Bro's palm, than it did tucked coyly behind bright orange fabric. He realizes, really realizes, that he's asking to have that monster of a cock shoved up inside him. It's a terrifying moment of wondering whether it'll fit, overwhelmed right after by his sheer excitement that holy fucking shit, that's going to stretch him so wide, it's going to feel amazing. 

His pants fall the rest of the way to his ankles without any help, and he starts to ask the question of, "How do you wanna do--" 

"Turn around," Bro says. "Lean against the mirror." 

Eridan does, quickly, his arms braced against the cool glass and his back stretching into a smooth curve. He leans his forehead against his forearm, so that he can see his cock straining against the fabric of his own underwear when he looks down. 

Bro helpfully assists him with those, his fingers tucking under the waistband and pulling Eridan's boxers down with unexpected delicacy. His hands linger on Eridan's legs, palms hot as they drag up the backs of Eridan's thighs and slide to cup Eridan's ass, spreading his cheeks apart so that he just _knows_ what Bro is looking at. 

"Don't just stare at it," he snaps. "Hurry up an' put somethin' in me, god, I should've realized you were gonna be a tease." 

Bro chuckles, and slides his thumb across Eridan's asshole, before letting go enough to fiddle with the lube. Eridan hears the cap pop, then the wet slurp of the contents being drizzled out, can imagine the puddle of it pooling in Bro's palm before being spread between his fingers. He doesn't have to imagine for very long; Bro's hand returns to his ass, and this time it's with a finger forcing its way up into him. 

Bro has large hands. It's something Eridan noticed while Bro was handling his credit card, even, and that time when Bro took change from Eridan's offering hands. A single finger of his is too thick to make light of and still, it's a disappointment. Eridan pushes back into Bro's hand, and when he breathes out, his breath catches in a whine. 

"Fuckin' impatient lil shit, aren't you?" Bro asks. 

"Says the overconfident jackass who doesn't know how to deliver," Eridan shoots back.

"You're a lot mouthier, when you don't have a bug up your ass about trying to be the simpering salesman," Bro points out. 

"I could–" Eridan cuts off, as Bro shoves his second finger into him as well, but quickly recovers. "—have somethin' else up my ass, if you weren't dead set on treatin' me like the fine china you don't wanna break because you're not sure if it's a special enough occasion." 

Bro snorts, and Eridan is pretty sure he _twists_ his fingers, but whatever it was it does get a completely undignified squeak out of him. He swallows his pushy protests for the moment, focusing instead on the feeling of thick, practiced fingers working in and out of him at a steady pace, working him open with an unwavering determination. Bro certainly isn't hasty, but he also isn't _really_ a tease, each pistoning push of his fingers coming quick enough to be almost, but not quite exactly, satisfying. 

"Come on," he tries again, wheedling. "That's good enough, really, that's plenty a prep an' I really can take it." 

He's genuinely surprised when Bro slides his fingers right out, doesn't even try to spite him. Eridan nearly splutters with the shock of it. 

"Don't look so disappointed about it," Bro taunts, to the sound of the condom packet ripping. "Maybe I just want you to fucking shut up for a second, and I'm accepting that stuffing you like a ten-pound turkey on Thanksgiving day is the only way to get that." 

Eridan huffs, but the sound transforms to a more appreciative one midway through, as he feels the head of Bro's cock sliding between his asscheeks. It's not a lot of warning – just the slippery feel of the lube and the latex of the condom, before a sensation of pressure and Bro's hands on his hips pulling Eridan back onto him. One moment it's just the stretch from the head pushing inside him, and then Bro's hips are rolling forward, not stopping until they slap softly against Eridan's backside. He gasps so hard he almost chokes. 

He was the one who told Bro to do it, the one who told him to hurry up, who had mocked Bro for his tardiness. Now he wants a moment to catch his breath, to acclimate to being stretched wide enough that it almost burns. Bro doesn't give him that. It's no more than the span of a heartbeat, maybe two, before Bro is pulling back. He thrusts in again hard enough to rock Eridan's whole body toward the mirror. 

"Shit," he gasps, around where his breath has caught in his throat. 

Bro's laugh isn't entirely kind, but it has that throaty quality to it that vibrates in Eridan's ears so that he wants to purr in response. He pushes back into Bro's next stroke, and the way Bro's laughter cuts off almost sounds like he's impressed. Eridan can't help but feel proud about that. 

Bro curls his arm around Eridan's waist, his fingers gripping tight against Eridan's opposite hip and holding him in place while thrusting into him. Eridan can see his own cock jumping with the force of each of Bro's thrusts where he's reflected in the mirror, can see the way his mouth sags open, the way his jaw clenches after. He's a disheveled mess, his transformation rapid and unavoidable. Being able to watch himself come apart only makes the whole experience better. 

He curses every time Bro's hips snap home, _shit_ and _fuck_ and _damn_ and little hisses bit out between his clenched-closed teeth, escalating towards actual yelps and nasal, breathy little whines. Hearing himself verges on being humiliating, but when he tries to swallow the sounds down, he only manages to blurt out something worse with Bro's next thrust. 

"Chrissakes," Bro mutters, his mouth close enough to Eridan's ear that he can feel the heat of Bro's breath all the better as he speaks. "You really don't fuckin' shut up." 

"I'm," Eridan says. "Sorry, if it's breakin' up your concentration to hear the sound a somebody you're fuckin' happenin' to. Happenin' to enjoy it, I guess that must not happen often, or does it?" 

"You cheeky little," Bro says, not bothering to finish the entire thought. He sounds a little short on breath, which fills Eridan with a satisfying warm smugness. "You could at least tone it down a little bit, unless your goal is for every damn person you work with to hear the dulcet tones of you getting drilled." 

That gets a mortified little wheeze out of Eridan, and he starts to drag one arm down to cover his mouth, before Bro thrusts into him again and he nearly brains himself on the mirror from not bracing himself. 

"I'm not tryin' to be noisy on purpose or anythin'!" he insists. "It's your fault, anyway, you should take responsibility for your actions." 

"You tellin' me you want me to shut you up, sugarplum?" 

Eridan makes a huffy little snort, biting into his lip instead of offering a reply. He'll pretend that he's not dignifying Bro with one, but it's more that he can't manage the words. He's mouthed off as much as he's able; now he's short on breath and shuddering, just doing his desperate best to hold it together while Bro tries to split him in two. 

"I can do that, you know," Bro continues. His hand moves to slide against Eridan's cheek, spreading across his face to clamp over Eridan's mouth. 

It's better, somewhat. The sounds Eridan is still trying to make, against his own honest wishes, muffle themselves against Bro's palm. After that all he hears is the ragged edge to Bro's breathing, the sound of Bro's jeans rustling and of his hips slapping against Eridan's ass. He whines despite the hand, and Bro shifts, and suddenly Bro's fingers are sliding into his mouth. The surprised sound he makes is muffled by those instead, and then the heavy press of fingers against his tongue is limiting how much noise he can make. 

Up until that point, he'd kind of wondered if he really could get off just from being fucked, but with the addition of fingers sliding in and out of his mouth like Bro wants to try fucking that hole, too, the better question abruptly becomes how long he can keep from getting off. He knew he liked the girth of Bro, liked the feeling of being filled to the point that he might as well officially be deemed a sheath for Bro's cock. But he hadn't realized he would like being stuffed from both ends so thoroughly that he couldn't even talk. 

When he comes, he whines thickly around Bro's fingers before unthinkingly biting down, the force of his orgasm splattering the mirror with white. 

His jizz on the glass is what he stares at as he tries to come down, but Bro won't even give him that. He's still thrusting into Eridan, still keeping to the bruising, breakneck pace he'd gotten into right at the start, and the feeling of Bro still fucking him is too much of a distraction. He whines, almost sobs, the nice, full feeling beginning to verge on too much. Even if he wanted to tell Bro to just stop, he isn't sure he could get that across – he bit into Bro's knuckles already and Bro hadn't even flinched. 

He starts to weakly rock into Bro again, encouragement for him to just fucking finish, and he knows it's the end when Bro's hips jerk one last, harsh time before he drags Eridan to him. He swears he can feel Bro come.

Bro slides his fingers out of Eridan's mouth first, before sliding his hips back. Eridan didn't even need the gag for the last minute but Bro must have clean forgotten. There's nothing intimate about the way Bro pulls away, slips the condom off, and ties it shut, but Eridan is too tired to care. He wasn't gunning for intimate, he was gunning for a ride on a dick gargantuan enough to put all his porn star dreams to shame and he's gotten that in spades. He slides over to the bench along the changing room wall, sinking onto it for the support. 

When he looks up at Bro, his dick is tucked away and he's slowly, carefully, working his jeans down and off of his legs. For a moment Eridan is confused, before he remembers that those still belong to the store.

He wonders if he's going to get fired. 

He doesn't really give a shit, though. Every fucking minute of that was worth it. He stares down at his feet for a second, puzzling out the mystery of how his pants are still around his ankles, but he doesn't quite have the presence of mind to pull them up yet. 

"Pretty sure you're still on the clock, bucko," Bro says. "You might at least pretend you weren't fucking the customers in the fitting rooms."

"Get bent," Eridan says, but it isn't vitriolic at all. It isn't much of a comeback, either, but he doesn't care. 

"Far as the customer service goes, though, yours can't really be beat," Bro adds. 

Rather than be irritated, Eridan just kind of grins to himself, feeling inordinately proud at the compliment. At long last, he starts to haul up his pants, groaning when getting them all the way on means standing back up. "Fine, fine, whatever, I guess I'm gonna go back out there an' show everyone what a stellar employee I happen to be."

"That's the ticket," Bro says. The grin he's wearing feels conspiratorial enough that Eridan doesn't mind it. 

He's genuinely surprised when he goes back to the entrance to the changing room area and no one, at any point, comes over to scold him for his lewd and entirely inappropriate behavior. The store is such a fucking joke. It isn't until the very end of his shift when he's going home that he realizes someone else will be putting the jeans Bro fucked him in back on the rack, because he knows damn fucking well Bro didn't buy them. 

-

-


End file.
